Soldier Queen
by Miss Mungoe
Summary: When she went to sleep the world was a sexist cesspit in the midst of war. 70 years later little has changed, but she's a relic of an old age – a dead woman walking in a future not meant for her, and fighting for a government that wants her dead. Captain Amestris and the Winter Soldier AU. – mentions of Olivier/Buccaneer and Roy/Riza.


AN: All honour to **allhailtheicebitch** on tumblr for the idea behind this. A Captain Amestris and the Winter Soldier AU, starring our favourite blonde as the Cap and her automail-armed partner-turned-enemy (whose name is conveniently similar to _Bucky_), Lan Fan as the Black Widow, Roy Mustang as Nick Fury, Riza Hawkeye as agent Maria Hill, and Miles as the Falcon. (Don't ask where this came from – my mind is an odd place). Mentions of Olivier/Buccaneer and Roy/Riza.

Disclaimer: Fullmetal Alchemist and its characters belong to Hiromu Arakawa and Captain America is property of Marvel; I own absolutely nothing.

* * *

**Soldier Queen**

by Miss Mungoe

70 years hadn't changed much.

_At least not the view. _She breathed in through her nose, and let it out, taking a moment to feel the bite of cold air against her skin. The landscape sprawled white and endless from the foot of the wall to the mountain range in the distance, and the sky was an overcast grey that promised a heavy downfall of snow. It was both dear and familiar, and it was in moments like these, perched at the very edge of the world, that she could close her eyes and forget that she was an anomaly stuck in a time she wasn't rightly supposed to be in – as out of place in her own life as a spring flower in a Briggs winter.

Sometimes she wondered if they shouldn't have just left her in the ice – if she'd been better off frozen at the bottom of oblivion for eternity. The Amestris she'd woken up to was far from the one she'd left, and though some things were still the same (_war, war and war again_), there were enough minute differences to give her a headache. Being a woman was still pretty shit, and being a woman in the military even more so, but she'd been welcomed back like a legend, regardless. 70 years in the ice was apparently long enough to make a lot of people forget their sexist prejudices, but they still lurked at her back like clinging shadows, and she heard the whispers, the – _you know way back when she first made an appearance she caused quite the stir? I mean could you imagine, a _**_woman_**_, fighting the Drachmans? _And her favourite, the _but surely she was chosen for the program by spreading her legs. How else could she have been picked over all the soldiers who were considered?_

She pursed her lips at the thought. If anything should have changed it was how the military viewed its female members, but well over half a decade hadn't done much in that regard, although there were far more women in the ranks than when she'd first signed up 70 years ago.

_Speaking of which. _She'd made note of her company a while back, but had made no move to start up a conversation. If the Widow was there, it meant work, and she wanted one more peaceful moment to forget where and _when_ she was before she was dragged back into the military's schemes.

"What?" she asked at length, after the silence had dragged on and it became evident her companion wasn't about to speak up.

The small shape appeared at her elbow – a shadow dark against the white backdrop of the Briggs mountains. "It's Mustang."

Olivier snorted. "It's always Mustang. What does he want _now_?"

Lan Fan raised a brow. "A meeting, nothing more."

"Mustang's _meetings_ always end with a mission."

"Then it's probably a mission."

"And his other lapdogs weren't available, I take it?"

Her partner raised a brow. "They were, but they aren't _you_. He asked for Captain Amestris."

Olivier sighed. "Is he still rooting for me to be the poster child for his new pep squad? I had my share of public appearances 70 years ago."

The woman at her side only quirked a smile, but didn't comment on her choice of words. "The initiative is meant to aid the country, not merely act as a boost for morale." She was quiet a moment. "He said it would be worth your while."

Olivier snorted, as she turned to walk back inside, pushing past the smaller woman. "He always says that," she said as she made for the door, throwing a glance over her shoulder at the dark shape standing at the edge of the wall.

"And yet I never feel like it is."

* * *

_Oh for Christ's sake. _"On your left!" she snapped, as she pushed past the soldier who took up the entire path before her, white hair sticking up like a damn cockerel's tail to block out the early morning sun. A disbelieving oath reached her ears as she outran him with ease, but it didn't do much to chase the irritation from her skin.

* * *

"You're hiding something."

Roy Mustang looked up from the document on his desk, one dark brow quirked in question. "Oh?"

Olivier crossed her arms over her chest. "That last assignment? Fishy as hell, and I'm not just saying that because it took place on a boat."

He didn't smile, but then neither did she, and the near stifling tension got gradually thicker until it rested over the room like a blanket. He watched her closely, as though assessing her, and she didn't move an inch from where she stood before the doorway, watching him back.

Then he sighed. "I'm entitled to _some_ secrets, Armstrong."

She scoffed. "Not from me, you're not. At least not if you still want me to lead your band of merry men on your quest to save the world. To say my patience with the runt is thinning would be putting it _lightly._"

"Hohenheim would have been disappointed if he'd heard you say that."

"_Hohenheim_ would have been disappointed to see how his brat grew up," she snapped. "That reckless kid can't be trusted on missions with all that righteous crap he's spouting about not taking lives, and yet you want _me_ at his back with a leash to make sure he doesn't get us all killed. And don't even get me started on that hulking metal death-trap always at his damn heels." She muttered. "Where the hell did you find these freaks anyway, Mustang?"

He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Armstrong, just...put up with them? You don't have to spend every waking moment in their presence, but they are your team–"

"I _had_ a team," she spat, cutting him off. "A damn good one, and you saw what happened to them."

"What happened to your partner was unfortunate–"

She held up a hand in warning. "And I'd appreciate it if you'd shut your trap about it." She glared. "It's personal, and it's in the _past_." Where it rightly should be, not on display like it was at the museum. There was an old picture of them there, enhanced and blown up to the size of a poster as part of the exhibition dedicated to her life and career. It had been taken at a dance he'd dragged her to a man's age ago, not long after she'd first taken up the mantle as the Captain. Buccaneer was grinning at the camera, one arm around her waist and her glare was such that it had earned her a rep for being rather camera-shy. And below the picture, a small but informative note for curious museum-goers, explaining the nature of the private but unquestionable relationship between Captain Amestris and her most trusted partner.

It was the only surviving picture of the two of them together, and she couldn't even bring herself look at it when she visited.

Mustang raised a brow, and when he spoke next she was drawn back out of her own thoughts. "Which is exactly why you should be moving on. Your _new_ team," he emphasised, "needs you. Amestris needs you. And not just part of you – the success of your missions depend on you being there completely, body and mind, not just your body. If you keep going through the motions like you have been, something is bound to go wrong."

She held her tongue from snapping that he'd no doubt have some issues, too, if he'd felt like part of him was still stuck 70 years in the past. Instead she only shifted her stance, and circled back around to their original argument. "The chances of mission success would be greatly enhanced if you'd tell me what the hell you're up to."

He sighed, and closed his eyes, as though asking for patience from the heavens. _Good luck with that – they won't be giving you shit if we're dealing with the same deity. _"You will know in due time."

"I've had enough of _time_, Mustang. 70 years of it, and I don't like being patronized."

He gave her a dry look. "You're not being patronized."

She raised a brow. "Tell me what you've got up your sleeve and I'll believe you."

He glared at her, and she glared back, but then, "_Fine._" He sighed. "But I don't think telling you will cover it." Then he rose from his seat, and walked around the desk. When he passed her, there was an exasperated but amused expression on his face.

"So how about I show you?"

* * *

"On your left!"

She heard a muttered curse behind her, but didn't look back as she pushed on, urging her legs to go faster, always just a little bit faster, until exhaustion bit like frost in her lungs and she felt _human_ again, and not just a machine always running smoothly no matter how hard she pushed herself. The track around the pool was a familiar route now, and she could cover it practically in her sleep; she knew how long it would take her to cover each length, when to make a turn, and exactly how many running steps to cover the whole of it. It was blessedly monotonous, with how much unpredictable crap she had to deal with on a daily basis.

_One more round, _she decided, and increased her speed just a twinge as she rounded the corner of the pool. It didn't take her long to catch up to the runner with the ridiculous hairdo again, but this time he increased his pace after a glance over one shoulder told him she was about to catch up again.

Olivier only snorted, and breezed past him. "On your left," she smirked.

"Oh, _come on!"_

* * *

She wasn't in the habit of finding strange men in her apartment.

"Mustang?"

He grimaced, a hand against his side and one finger against his lips, and her brows raised at the sight of the blood dripping onto her carpet. He motioned with his eyes to the walls, and she frowned. _Ears, huh? Why am I not surprised. _

"The wife kicked me out," he ground out through clenched teeth, an odd smile on his face. "She does that, sometimes."

She hesitated a moment, casting a wary look around her. Then, "Well, with the amount of crap you pull, what do you expect?" She snorted. "Riza's got the patience of a saint, but then, this is _you _we're talking about_._"

He grimaced. "You're...so _honest_, Armstrong. Has anyone ever told you that? It's a good trait...sometimes, but–" he coughed, and a trickle of blood trailed down his chin. "–sometimes it's best to keep one's mouth sh–"

The bullet hit him through the chest, shattering the window, and she swore as she leaped out of the way, grabbing hold of his jacket as she went down. "Mustang!" she hissed, pressing a hand to his chest, but he was out cold, and going by the blood seeping into the floorboards around them, it wouldn't be long until he was gone completely. "Damn it!"

The door to the apartment was thrown open then, and she whirled around, one hand on the handle of her sword, only to find the quiet med-student from down the hall in the doorway, a gun in her hand. Olivier glared. "Med-student, my ass."

The woman only pushed her glasses up her nose as she came to kneel beside her, careful to keep out of sight of the window. "It's not a total lie. I've got medical training." She swore at the sight of the blood. "This is bad – what the hell happened?" She fumbled around in her pocket for a phone, before snapping into it, "I need backup; we've got a man down!"

"Can you handle things from here?"

The woman looked up. "Yes. What are–"

But Olivier didn't hear what else she had to say as she made a break for the broken window, throwing herself out onto the adjoining rooftop. There was a massive, dark shape in the distance sprinting away from her, but she bit her teeth together and ran after it, sparing one last thought for her boss as she cut through the night.

_You better not bleed out on me now, Mustang – you've still got a fuckload of explaining to do!_

* * *

She watched the empty operating table with furrowed brows.

Roy Mustang had been declared dead less than an hour earlier, due to extensive injuries he'd sustained from a car chase, and a well-aimed bullet through the chest from his assassin come back to finish the job. It all smacked of something bad, and it itched along the skin of her arms. Something was going on – something Mustang had known about but hadn't let her in on despite how much she'd hounded him. But if he'd ended up dead because of it, there was probably a good reason why he'd kept his cards so close, although it was hard convincing herself of the wisdom of that as she spared a glance at his wife's eyes staring blankly through the glass window separating them from the operating room.

Lan Fan lingered in the doorway behind them, a wary look on her face, and Olivier's frown deepened. There was a look in those eyes – recognition, or something of the sort. _She knows something. _Then, with a last glance at Hawkeye who'd been silent at her elbow throughout the whole ordeal, she strode towards the door and the smaller woman. Hand curling around the girl's shoulder, she tugged her into an empty corridor, making no point whatsoever to be gentle about it.

"_Talk._"

The girl didn't twitch at her tone, face as impassive as a rock. "I'm not much wiser than you."

Olivier snorted. "Hell if I'll believe that. This Drachman bear – what do you know about him?"

Lan Fan shook her head, but the expression yielded to one of barely concealed irritation. "Not much. They call him the Winter Soldier, but the intel gathered on him is mostly hearsay – he's a legend more than a person."

"A legend?" She didn't bother keeping the doubt out of her voice. From her own experience, legends were usually worth shit.

Lan Fan looked her dead in the eyes. "He's been active for over 70 years."

Olivier frowned. "And this is the same guy?"

"So the reports say, but I can't be sure."

"And he's eluded you before?"

Her look darkened at that. "On several occasions. He...is not easy to track down."

She raised a brow in challenge. "So does that mean you can't do it?"

"I didn't say _that._"

She loosened the grip on her shirt, and stepped back. "Then do it. Find me this bastard. Well go, legend against legend and see who's worthy of making the history books."

Lan Fan pursed her lips. "This isn't a game, Olivier. Roy Mustang is _dead_ because of this man."

Olivier met her glare with her own. "And I'm saying let's make sure it stops with Mustang." Then she turned away, leaving the Xingese assassin in her wake as she strode down the corridor and out of the hospital, determination in her step and anger thrumming along her veins despite the persistent smell of death and decay that clung to her nose. _The Winter Soldier, huh? _She snorted.

_Then I'll bury your ass in the ice you crawled out from, and you'll really earn that name._

* * *

The attempt on her life didn't come as much of a surprise. After Mustang, she'd expected something of the sort.

But not from_ her own people._

_Loyalty was something else back in the day, _she thought as she dashed around the corner, slipping in between two cramped buildings and into a dark alleyway in another attempt at getting the pursuers off her trail. Her shoulder was bleeding like a bitch, and the fall she'd taken had knocked the air out of her lungs so bad she was still having trouble pulling it back in. But she pushed on until her eyes stung from the wind cutting against her face and her legs ached beneath her weight. She was outnumbered and injured, and didn't have a sure count of how many were still tracking her. Taking them on alone would be suicide, even for Captain Amestris. _Damn it! Hell if I'm dying like this. _

She needed somewhere to go – somewhere to lay low while she scrounged together some semblance of a plan and figured out what the hell she was supposed to do with a corrupt government that had used to want her face on their promotional posters, but now wanted her head on a platter. Aside from the Widow she was getting rather short on people she could trust now that everyone was turning up dead, but she couldn't keep pushing on alone against a whole damn _state_. She needed a cover, and help from someone who knew the system but didn't mind working against it if the situation called for it. She needed more allies. She–

She knew exactly where to go.

* * *

"_Falcon_, huh?"

Miles grinned, pushing his goggles up to his forehead as he gave the artificial wings a demonstrative flap. Lan Fan seemed impressed despite herself.

Olivier snorted. "Get a haircut and we'll talk – until then I'm calling you Rooster Boy."

He opened his mouth to protest, but she cut past him before he could speak, giving him a thump on the shoulder for good measure, a grin tugging at the corner of her mouth. "On your left."

"_Seriously?!"_

* * *

_He was faster than her._

Which, being a genetically modified human being, was really saying something.

_Shit! _She caught herself in a roll as she threw herself out of the way to avoid a claw-tipped automail-arm that looked like it could tear her to shreds, reinforced skin-tissue notwithstanding. And the man at the other end of the arm looked to fit the part of rearing mountain bear, but despite his size he was quicker than she'd expected.

_If the rumours are true..._But she didn't want to think about that, because one genetically engineered super-soldier was more than enough for the world – _two_ made things complicated, and not in the 'this town isn't big enough for the both of us'-complicated, but the kind of complicated that could threaten civilian lives.

Hidden behind an overturned car, she cast a glance at the carnage around her, the vehicles toppled on their sides and the burning wreckage of a bus, and swore under her breath. Her opponent seemed to have no qualms about taking out a few bystanders while he was at it, and if she didn't get him off the street and into some secluded area, there'd definitely be more casualties before the fight was over. And as things were looking now, she'd be one of them if she didn't pick up her feet.

Fingers tightening around the handle of her sword, Olivier breathed once, before pushing herself out from behind the cover of the toppled vehicle, weapon drawn and ready as she advanced on the Winter Soldier. "Hey!"

He inclined his head at the sound of her voice, and she proffered her sword, squaring her shoulders as she rose to her full height. Three long strides was all that separated them now, but he made no move to cover the distance, only regarded her closely, though the mask covering the bottom half of his face made it difficult discerning what expression he wore. His hair fell in a straggly mess around his shoulders – longer than hers, but unkempt and dirty where she made an active point of keeping her mane in good condition. This might be the enemy's poster child for their attempted world domination, but this was a man who worked in the shadows, and whose face wasn't slapped on billboards like hers.

Something nagged at the back of her mind as she watched him, a sense that there was something she was supposed to remember, something _important_, but it remained stubbornly just out of her reach. He reminded her of someone, she realized – the towering bulk, the long hair, and the way he threw his entire weight into his movements...

_Are you getting so nostalgic you're seeing lovers in enemies, old girl? _She snorted at her own thoughts, and shifted her stance ever so slightly, wary of his sudden silence and lack of movement. With the way he was standing, it did feel somewhat like circling a bear rearing to attack. But she'd never been one for backing down in a fight because her opponent was physically larger than her, and so she stubbornly stayed where she was, and didn't cower.

The screeching swerve of a car broke the spell, and she looked up to see Lan Fan aim the vehicle towards the lone figure, but she missed her target by a hairbreadth, and she watched the massive shape lurch out of the way, hair flying wild as he deftly avoided being hit. When he came to a stop, he rose slowly – deliberately, before he looked up to meet her gaze. Her eyes widened as she watched the mask fall from his face–

–and all the breath was sucked out of her lungs. _It can't be. _"Buccaneer...?"

But there was no recognition in those cold eyes – not even a twinge, though there wasn't a doubt in her mind that it was _him_, sure as it was her standing before him–

"_Look, sir – it's your face."_

_She looked up at the poster – faded around the edges, the colours a little dull, but it was her alright, in her pristine new uniform and with her sword strapped to her back, her hair thick and wild like a mane and framing the dragon emblazoned on the front of her jacket._

_She snorted. "They could have picked a better picture."_

_The large hand clapped down on her shoulder – a private gesture he didn't often indulge in in public, but his proud grin was big enough for the both of them. "I think it's perfect. Look – it's your best glare. That ought to send those Drachmans a message, eh?" He laughed, loud and heartily. _

_She pursed her lips, but didn't correct him, and when he tugged her towards the partygoers and the music drifting out from the dance hall, she followed, if a little reluctantly. _

She sucked in a breath through her nose, but couldn't take a single step, and her sword-hand shook where it gripped the handle of her blade. _No. _

He tilted his head – an almost feral light in his cold gaze, but still he made no move to advance towards her. And she took in everything now – the familiar, rearing bulk, the hair he'd always made such care to braid every day, the automail-arm he must have gotten along with whatever genetic treatment had kept him alive and kicking for all these years–

"_You know, they say this is the best time to be alive." _

_She cracked open one eye to look at him from where she lay, pressed between him and the wall. "Really? This time? With the war raging on like a never-ending storm?" _

_He laughed – the sound a rumble that shook the bunk and made the bedsprings strain under their shared weight. "There'll always be a war," he said, as he looked up at the ceiling. Then he glanced down at her. "Call me pessimistic, but I can't help but think the future will be worse."_

_She smirked. "Isn't this where you're supposed to say we'll be the ones to make sure it isn't?" she drawled as she turned towards him, placing one hand on his chest as she tilted her head. _

_He barked another laugh. "Nah, I'll leave that kind of optimism for the kids." He winked. "We're too old for fairy stories."_

_She snorted, but closed her eyes. "Probably." She hesitated. "You think we'll make it out of this war, Bucc?" _

_There was a hand against her hair, fingers tangling in the thick mass, and an exhale. "After all the shit we've seen so far?" He shook his head. _

"_I'm kind of hoping we won't." _

He took a step towards her then, but she didn't budge, though she made no move to lower her sword, either. He hadn't said a word, but a look of confusion passed over the hard planes of his face – soot-smudged and drawn, but unmistakable. There wasn't a doubt in her mind now, though it was _impossible_, surely. He was d–

–_even with her enhanced strength, his weight was too much._

"_Don't you fucking let go!"_

_The fingers curled around her wrist loosened, but she gripped harder in return, and swore when she felt herself tugged towards the edge. The train rumbled beneath her, and her eyes stung from the cold, tears gathering at the corners from the harsh wind. "No–!"_

"_Sorry, sir," he grinned, a tired quirk of the lips that spelled defeat where his words did not. "You always did say I was too damn heavy for my own good." _

"_Save your atrocious humour for later, Bucc–"_

"_There's no **later**," he cut her off, voice almost dying on the howl of the wind. "Just remember something, yeah?" _

"_No – don't you fucking say it!" _

_He grinned, but there was no humour behind it now. "I'm with you to the end of the line, sir."_

_Then he__** let go**__–_

–and she felt a sick surge in her stomach as she stared him down, willing it to be a mirage – a trick of her own imagination. Maybe she'd taken a hit to the head, and she'd wake up from some sort of wild, comatose dream soon in a hospital bed somewhere. Or maybe she'd been wrong all along and there was such as thing as a Hell and _this was it, this was her penance for letting him fall to his death. _

But she didn't wake, and he didn't disappear, but remained as tangible before as as the burning wreckages surrounding them on all sides. The air had the nauseating smell of gasoline mingled in with scorched asphalt, and the rising smoke was making her eyes sting.

Then he attacked – the claw-tipped automail hand making a swipe for her face before she'd had a chance to draw another breath. _Shit–_

She dropped onto her back, and rolled out of the way before pushing herself to her feet again, and when he came at her a second time she was ready, blocking the attack but the blow was so that it shoved her back a good foot across the asphalt. His next hit found her side, knocking the breath from her lungs, and it had just made impact when he aimed for her head. She dodged the best she could but one claw caught her above the eye, and she hissed as the cut seeped blood into her line of vision. Then with a strangled roar, she threw her weight against him, the hilt of her sword ramming into his sternum with enough force to knock him back a step, but it only distracted him for a moment before he advanced on her again.

They'd used to spar back in the day, but this was nothing like that. There were no good-natured attempts at getting her to lose her concentration by making her laugh, but blows meant to lop her head off. He'd never been one for holding back, but there was something different about his movements now, something wild and feral and _lethal, _but the worst was the _control_ that governed his every move. If he'd lashed out aimlessly that would have been one thing, but each hit was aimed with an intention that burned in eyes that had once seen humour in everything, but that saw nothing now but a target he'd been ordered to kill.

A blow caught her across the jaw and she hit the ground hard enough to jar her head so much her vision crossed, and she didn't have the energy to roll out of the way of the next attack. But just as a curled metal fist darkened the view of the sky above her, a firm grip pressed around her ankle and she was tugged out of the way as it came down hard on the asphalt.

Lan Fan hoisted her to her feet, yelling into her earpiece as she went, and Olivier caught the shadow of a pair of mechanical wings passing overhead before she was shoved into a vehicle. Everything was a blur and her heart was a drum in her ears, drowning out the noise of the car and the people talking around her. She was dimly aware of movement, the slamming of doors and shouted commands, before Hawkeye tore at the steering wheel, and when she looked over her shoulder and out the back window of the car she found the dark shape still there – looming against a backdrop of fire and smoke.

Then the car pulled out onto another street, and Hawkeye hit the gas–

–and just as fast as he'd barged into her new existence, he was gone from it.

* * *

"Armstrong?"

She looked up to find Miles lurking a distance away, an undecipherable look on his dark face. She sighed. "What do you want, Rooster Boy?"

He didn't correct her, but he didn't quite smile, either. "I figured you'd want to talk."

She snorted. "What, because I'm a woman you think I need to share my feelings?"

He raised a brow. "No, because our biggest enemy just turned out to be your old–" he stopped at that, but the word lingered between, as loud and clear as if he'd spoken it. _Lover. _

"I don't _need_ to talk about it."

"But do you want to?"

She glared at him. "What is there to say? I need to–" she stopped, because she didn't quite know herself what she needed to do. Make Drachma pay for what they'd done, though she didn't even know the extent of that. How many years had they had him on a leash? Since he'd fallen down from those train tracks? They'd kept him alive for 70 years, shaping him into something more akin to a machine than a man. Had they taken his arm or given him a new for one he'd lost? She knew _nothing_, and it coiled, raw and angry at the bottom of her stomach because with her lack of knowledge was also a helplessness because _what could she do?_ Where the hell would she even _start_?

Bile rose in her throat in turn with her vicious anger, but she forced it down as she glared into the forest canopy. It would do her no good to lose her temper now when she didn't even know who to pursue. _Drachma_ was too vague, though she'd have liked nothing more than to burn the entire, poisoned country to the ground.

Miles had been silent a long while when he finally spoke up. "I know he's your old partner," he said, the word falling awkwardly from his lips, no doubt because he wasn't forward enough to say it like it was, but she wasn't about to correct him. It was one thing waking up to find the whole world knew pretty much every detail of her personal life, from what she'd preferred for breakfast to the identity of the man who'd shared her bed – she didn't need the reminder shoved in her face anymore than it was whenever she visited the museum.

Miles pushed on, "And I don't know what you're planning on doing about this, but...I don't think he's the kind you save. He's the kind you stop."

She didn't say anything to that, and, seeming to realize he wasn't getting any further with that particular conversation, he turned to walk back to where Mustang and the others were holed up. The shit was about to hit the fan and they were a team of five going up against an entire organisation, at the head of which was a dead man whose cold ghost had come back to haunt her 70 years after his death, and she wondered again if she hadn't perhaps been better off if they'd just left her in the ice. _You were right, old friend, _she thought. _We'd have been lucky not to have made it out of the war. _

She stood at the bridge long after he'd gone back inside, fingers clenched around the rusted metal railing in memory of a hand she hadn't been able to hold on to.

* * *

It was startlingly nostalgic, and she wondered a moment if this was what he'd felt, when he'd plummeted down that snowy ravine all those years ago. A sense of letting_ go, _the wind howling about her ears as she dropped towards the river below, her mind going dark and blank and the fire and war and _death_ that had governed so much of her life quieted into nothingness.

"With you...to the_ end of the line...Bucc._"

* * *

–_of the line..Bucc. _

_...Bucc..._

_...eer...Buccaneer...?_

He deposited the small shape on the riverbank, glaring down at the bloodied mass of tangled blonde hair that clung to the re-opened cut on her brow. Her face was lax and there wasn't a trace of the glare she'd been sporting when she's screamed at him earlier, and something nagged at the back of his mind like an itch at the memory.

He'd seen her before – had known her before, but _before_ was a void in his mind, sucking up memories like water down a drainpipe and he could barely separate one day from the next but _he'd known her_. He knew that much, not just from her words but from the way she'd looked at him – the way that told him she'd known _him._ But all he knew was the cold and the killing and the _mission_, and he couldn't dredge up anything else, even if the gold of her hair reminded him of a warmth he thought he might have known, once.

The dragon at the front of her uniform was soaked through with blood and he looked at it, long and hard as he tried to will himself to remember if it had used to stand for something, if it had once meant something else to him than the emblem of the opposing side – of marks to be hit. She hadn't looked at him like an enemy, and _that had to mean something. _

The burning wreckages of the helicarriers sinking into the Central river at his back cast odd shadows across the river's edge, and he looked up from her face to the sky overhead. Someone would find her soon, and he couldn't stick around for that, no matter the questions pressing against his brow like a headache.

And so with a last glance at her unconscious shape he turned, leaving her at the riverbank as he disappeared into the tree line, the last words she'd uttered as they'd fallen clinging to his mind like frost – a cold reminder of an even colder day he thought he could almost remember but not quite.

_I'm with you to the end of the line._

* * *

He tugged the hat down to cover his brow as he weaved in between the crowd, feeling distinctly out of place, yet the other visitors seemed too preoccupied with the exhibition to keep an eye out for suspicious bystanders.

"–can see, there isn't a whole lot on her personal life, but these are some private photographs collected and displayed with the permission of her family. She was born and raised in Central, the eldest of five–"

The drone of the guide's voice was drowned out by the surge of his own blood in his ears as he stared up at the picture of a face he recognized from the mirror. A different man in a different time, with neatly braided hair and sporting a wide grin so foreign it had taken him a moment to realize he was looking at himself.

And on his arm, a beautiful woman with long golden hair and a glare that didn't at all fit with the festive surroundings. It was the same glare he remembered from atop the helicarrier before it had gone down, though the furious grief in her eyes then was nothing like the reluctant humour in the photograph. And he felt sick to his stomach as his gaze drifted to the informative plaque beneath the photo–

"_The Captain surrounded herself with a close knit circle of friends, but one stood out amongst the rest – Private Buccaneer. They met when enlisting and after the Captain's rise to fame, stuck together throughout the duration of the Drachman war. A popular duo, they were the source of much speculation at the height of the Captain's career, though there has been found no official record of marriage in the years following her death. However, sources close to the Captain have stated there was never any doubt with regards to the nature of their relationship."_

"And here we come to a particularly popular part of the exhibit – a partnership surrounded by as much speculation today as it was nearly seventy years ago–"

He pushed past the guide, cutting her off but he didn't offer an apology, desperate to get out of the stifling exhibit and the building and the _whole damn country_, if only to get away from the picture that was now branded into his memory, along with the sound of her voice in his ears – ringing clear like a bell through the fog in his mind.

_I'm with you to the end of the line, Bucc._

* * *

AN: This was a spur-of-the-moment kind of idea that struck me after finding one of **allhailtheicebitch**'s doodles of Winter Soldier!Buccaneer, and she let me play around with her headcanon. It was meant to be just an exploration of moments from the film with these characters, which is why it's so choppy. Hope it was an interesting read, regardless!


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